


Floriography

by yakman



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: (is that a thing), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Catholicism, Hanahaki Disease, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Angst, Mutual Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Tattoo Artist/Florist Trope, mild flower gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24607537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakman/pseuds/yakman
Summary: When words prove difficult, a tattoo artist and a florist find their own language.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 17
Kudos: 19





	Floriography

**Author's Note:**

> i want to clarify that in this story, hanahaki disease means something a little different than it usually does. it'll be explained, but if you go into the story expecting it to match the usual trope, you'll probably be confused. i've also condensed some ages here for the sake of coherency. i just don't do a very good job of explaining that right away.  
> //  
> also: i wouldn't say we're going into this story blind, but we don't have 20/20 vision, and our contacts are dried up and someone stepped on our glasses.

It’s a hazy summer, lazy and slow in the worst ways. Like a bad dream, where it’s impossible to run even when the sense of dread is overwhelming. Like waking up with a parched throat while it’s still dark out. Like drowning in molasses.

“I think I’m getting a contact high,” Diarmuid says from the couch. He’s still shaking, in spite of the perfect patch of sunlight spilling in from the living room window to frame him—impossibly bright, as though nothing has ever been wrong in the world before.

“Doubt it.” Rua returns from the kitchen. He sets a plastic cup of water on the end table and hands Diarmuid a slice of Wonderbread, then holds a bag of frozen mixed vegetables wrapped in a stained dishcloth to the bruise blossoming just beneath Diarmuid’s eye, until Diarmuid takes it in his own hand. He observes the trembling in Diarmuid’s arm when he tries to eat—takes the blanket folded over the back of the couch, shakes it open, and lays it across him. “You good?”

Diarmuid takes a bite. His stomach feels numb. Rua moves around to the front of the couch, sits on the floor with a heavy sigh and leans against it, near Diarmuid’s feet.

“That was the worst night of my life,” Diarmuid says quietly.

He can feel Rua turning to look at him, and refuses to look back—he knows Rua’s expression is either incredulous or concerned, and in this moment he doesn’t particularly like the idea of either.

“Oh, Di,” Rua sighs, “my sweet summer child.”

🕈

The man across the counter from Diarmuid is a paradox.

He looks like the kind of man who would have introduced himself with a too-firm handshake, or a heavy clasp on Diarmuid’s shoulder in an unnecessary display of dominance—yet he offers neither. His shoulders are broad, yet as he takes a seat, he hunches in on himself as though he doesn’t have the weight to throw around. And he has more than enough height and width to fill the entire tattoo parlor with his voice—yet he is silent.

He’s perched on the stool across from Diarmuid in a way that is strangely delicate, too-careful, knees falling apart but hands folded loosely between them, thumbs kneading the backs of large, rough hands. His head makes small turns as he scans the entire front of the parlor—Diarmuid follows his eyes from the framed sketches on the wall to the cracked leather of the waiting area couch, from the Rolling Stone magazine on the hand-painted coffee table to the smoldering stick of incense next to the register. There’s a sharp intelligence in the way he seems to catalogue each aspect of the room, but his expression is soft, eyes dark and unassuming. Briefly, Diarmuid thinks of his parents’ Labrador puppy.

“So,” Diarmuid begins, when the silence stretches on, “you’re here for a tattoo, right?”

The man looks up from the incense holder—a clay sculpture of a bloodied hand wrapped around some sort of medieval torture weapon, Rua’s handiwork—and meets Diarmuid’s gaze for the first time.

A short nod; the eye contact disappears as quickly as it’s been made.

“Alright,” Diarmuid reaches for the parlor’s standard portfolio—pauses. “Actually, before we start, could I see an ID?” When the man only stares with what Diarmuid assumes is some form of incredulity, he amends, “Just have to go through all the steps, you know.”

The man fishes a wallet from his back pocket, frayed brown leather, and Diarmuid resists the urge to check himself in the mirror on the wall behind the counter. Maybe he looks tired, irritable—this man almost seems intimidated by him, and that is the opposite problem he usually faces with first-time customers—especially ones that look the way this man does. The beard, the bulk, the sloping brow.

He’s used to the stares—a tattoo artist without a single tattoo, piercing, not even hair dye or makeup—though sometimes he wishes the motorcycle-enthusiast regulars wouldn’t stare so long. Him being a blank slate can’t be _that_ interesting. But avoidance—avoidance is new.

Or—right. Maybe it’s the bruise. Diarmuid’s fingers rise to his cheek, eyes narrowing and nose wrinkling in a grimace. He doubts it makes him look more intimidating—it probably looks pretty pathetic.

The ID checks out, which Diarmuid knew it would. He slides it back across the counter and does his best to smile. An acute ache blossoms from the center of the bruise and spirals through his cheek, and he winces—which he hopes the man didn’t notice, his entire focus set on retrieving his driver’s license.

“So, David—” the man looks up sharply, and Diarmuid motions somewhat apologetically to the card he’s currently tucking back into his wallet, “—what did you have in mind?”

More silence, and the eye contact is once again lost.

“ _Did_ you have anything in mind?” Diarmuid asks the question gently, eager not to accuse, while his brain continues to parse a man that looks like _that_ being so—uncertain.

Diarmuid has met giants before. Worked with them, inked them—some gentle, some not. None ever acted quite like this.

Finally, the man shakes his head. Something new settles in his brow, and he looks—frustrated. Diarmuid shifts nervously. Men like this—he knows—can be set off by the seemingly smallest things. Phrases, words, a movement too quick in the corner of their eye. Like a shock of electricity that reanimates things inside you thought were dead. In some ways, Diarmuid understands—in some ways, it puts him on edge.

When he speaks again, he schools his tone even smoother. “It’s no problem. Why don’t we have a look at a few options to get you started?”

He draws the standard portfolio from where it lays, opened to a random page, at the other end of the desk—a three-ring binder that is perhaps one careless touch away from falling apart at the spine. He opens it to the first page—a skull with a forked tongue rolling out from between gold teeth—and turns it to face the man.

Almost immediately, the man frowns and shakes his head. When he makes no move to turn the page, Diarmuid does it for him—a blue rose and the silhouetted profile of a roaring lion. The man shakes his head again. The next page—the bust of a raven and an anchor. He shakes his head again.

Stars, hearts, infinity symbols; mandalas, Celtic knots, fleur-de-lis. Diarmuid flips through the designs slowly, trying to give the man a chance to look at them carefully, but it’s rejection every time, a resolute nod and a deepening frown.

He’s looking for something specific, Diarmuid thinks—he just doesn’t seem to know what.

Then—the second to last page. The man starts to shake his head, then stops, stares. Carefully, his hands unwind, and he points at a gray ink cross.

It’s one of the plainer designs—simple shading and little flourish beyond the way each of the four ends curve out into three points. But the man continues to stare, until Diarmuid gently prompts—“This one?”—and his eyes snap back up.

The frown doesn’t quite disappear. The man taps his finger against the laminated cross pensively, running it once across the vertical center of the design, which is almost completely inkless, giving it the appearance of a metallic sheen.

Diarmuid watches him, listens to his frustrated exhale, and desperately wishes he could understand exactly what wasn’t right. Part of him wonders if he should just ask kindly if David would please speak—but another part feels guilty at the mere idea of requesting such a thing for the sake of his own convenience.

Before he can decide exactly what to do, he finds himself speaking again, hesitantly trying, “So you like this design, but you also don’t.”

The man nods.

Diarmuid glances toward the private booths; the soft hum of the tattoo machine tells him Cathal is still with his client. Rua won’t be in to set up the piercing station for another hour. He chews the inside of his cheek, torn. He’s still an apprentice. He isn’t allowed to give clients any tattoos that aren’t directly from the standard portfolio—designs he’s practiced over and over on grapefruit, and about two handfuls of times on human skin.

But he can see it in this man’s eyes, the way they begin to dart—the side of Diarmuid’s face, down at his hands, toward the door—that he is mere seconds away from leaving. And besides not wanting to lose a client—because it’s not just about money, it’s never just about money—Diarmuid can’t help but see something in him, a warped and shadowy reflection he can vaguely recognize; the parts that get reanimated by an electric shock, no matter how deep they’re buried.

Diarmuid understands it, and as he watches the man tap the cross, the edge he felt before melts away.

“Hey.” He leans in, can’t help lowering his voice conspiratorially—he keeps himself steady with resolve, though the worry of being overheard by his mentor lingers. The man startles a bit at Diarmuid’s sudden proximity, meeting his eyes for the third time, and this time Diarmuid locks it in, determined. “If you like this design, how about I draw up some alternatives? I can get them done over the weekend. Then we can talk—er,” he tilts his head, smiling apologetically, “—or something. How does that sound?”

The man regards him for a moment, eyes widening, like Diarmuid is some strange and foreign creature. Then, once again, he nods slowly—carefully—almost warily.

Diarmuid leans back, smiles, closes the portfolio. “Great. Could I—oh, could I get your email address? I can send you the sketches by Monday and you can let me know what you think.”

As he rummages under the counter for some scrap paper, the man takes out his wallet again—at first Diarmuid thinks he’s getting a pen, but then he starts counting bills. Diarmuid waves the piece of scrap paper a bit frantically.

“Oh, no, you don’t—you don’t have to pay yet. First we’ll decide on the design you want, then we’ll set up an appointment. You’ll put your deposit down then, not—now. So don’t worry about it.”

The man hesitates, and he searches Diarmuid’s face as though searching for some further explanation—there’s a question in his eyes that Diarmuid can’t read, can’t answer. His eyes linger on the bruise. Diarmuid widens his smile best he can and places the scrap paper and a pen in front of him. It takes another moment for the searching gaze—immeasurable, like he can see the entire story printed in the black and purple mark—to stop, but eventually it drags away. Diarmuid lets out the small breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

His hand wanders subconsciously to his cheek, but he doesn’t notice until the man finishes writing and holds out the pen for Diarmuid to take, and his eyes are back on Diarmuid’s face, searching.

Diarmuid takes the paper quickly, thanks him, and without hesitation he gets up to leave. He towers when he rises, slowly, carefully, and for a moment Diarmuid feels eclipsed.

Then he’s gone, the silver sleigh bells Rua hot glued to the door last Christmas jingling like magic.

He leaves behind an air that is strangely fresh, Diarmuid thinks—like spring.

🕈

Their apartment is small, oversaturated, and vaguely, inescapably smoky. The furniture is minimal but violently colorful, from the metallic blue tile of the kitchen tabletop to the screaming red of the living room couch. Each thrift store dining chair has been repainted by Rua, the walls cluttered with every decoration imaginable—band posters and decorative cat plates, ornate mirrors and tapestries; some things overlapping, some dangling by one corner. On the farthest wall from the front door, a ceiling-tall bookshelf leans under the weight of beat-up folklore anthologies, historical nonfiction, and textbooks. It’s all Cathal’s design; he’s been living here the longest. Diarmuid thinks he’s a bit of a magpie. Rua calls him a hoarder.

There is one bathroom, one bedroom, and a little studio, which is now also a bedroom. The main square of space at the front door serves as the kitchen and living room, separated only by the cutoff from carpet to linoleum. There’s a WELCOME mat with paw prints—though, Diarmuid notices as he unlocks the front door, it seems Rua has once again replaced it with the GO AWAY mat when Cathal wasn’t looking.

He toes out of his secondhand converse at the front door and beelines for his room. His nose itches at the smoke that lingers faintly in the air, and he swipes at it with one hand. Rua always blames Cathal’s weed, but the smell is only a problem when standing immediately outside their boss’s bedroom door, so Diarmuid suspects the real issue is that Rua has never and will never learn how to use a stove.

When he enters the bedroom, Diarmuid mumbles a greeting to Rua, who is laid out, wiry and pale, on his mattress in nothing but a sleeveless tank and boxers, an arm slung over his face. He drops his backpack next to his desk and nearly misses his chair in his rush to sit down. He hears Rua grunt; then, as he opens his sketchbook, he hears the mattress shift.

Their room is dormlike—or so Cathal says, Diarmuid has no frame of reference for such a space—only worse. Under the window facing the street are their mattresses, separated by a curtain hung on plastic shower rings and command hooks. At the foot of each mattress are their respective desks, and on the opposite end of the room is their sliver of shared closet space.

The mattresses are piled with plenty of blankets and pillows, and the window is never drafty—it’s just small. And there are no bed frames.

“You finish cleaning the equipment already?” Rua asks.

“Yep,” Diarmuid flips to a fresh page—then slides his laptop to one side of the desk, boots it up; rifles around in the old butter cookie tin he uses to hold his drawing pencils until he finds what he’s looking for, and waits, tapping the graphite against the paper, like the man—David—tapped his finger against the almost-perfect design page.

The man. David. His first real customer.

“You seem happy,” Rua comments—he sounds suspicious, but Rua always sounds suspicious. Diarmuid hums, logs into his laptop, pulls up a search tab.

“I’ve been struck with inspiration.”

Cross motif. Can’t be a bad place to start. He tabs Christian symbolism and the Wikipedia page on crucifixion, just in case, and starts sketching.

“That’s good,” Rua says. Diarmuid hears him sit up with a sigh. “Cathal was worried. You’ve been drawing less lately.”

“Maybe a little.” He starts simple, mimicking the one from the standard portfolio. It’s easy to redraw—he’s inked it a million times, into every kind of fruit imaginable. He knows the design by heart; he’ll work off it and see where it takes him.

“You know you gotta be drawing every day, Di,” Rua says.

“I know.”

“You gotta draw more than you _breathe_.”

“Of course.”

“Shit.” He hears Rua tugging at his shirt. “It’s _hot_.”

“Yeah.” Diarmuid tears out the copy of the original, pastes it to the empty drywall behind his desk with two small thumb prints of poster putty. Then he starts on the next one. The air conditioning hasn’t worked since before he moved in.

“Hey,” Rua says, after a slight pause, “how’s your face?”

As though pleased to be noticed, the bruise throbs. “It’s fine,” Diarmuid says.

Rua stands, circles around so that he’s on Diarmuid’s other side. He leans down, eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t look fine. Pretty sure it’s gotten bigger.”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt as much.”

“Hm.” Rua straightens—still suspicious, always suspicious. “And you? How are you faring?”

Diarmuid’s pencil slows on the page, stops. “I’m also fine.” Starts again.

Another pause. “Sorry you got caught up in all that. You shouldn’t have been there.”

“Rua, I’m _fine_.”

“If I hadn’t—”

“Rua.” Diarmuid puts down his pencil and turns sternly. “You couldn’t have known.”

Rua looks thoroughly unconvinced, but he doesn’t answer—only folds his arms, frowns at Diarmuid’s bruise. Then his expression softens.

“What’re you drawing?”

“Nothing.” Diarmuid scrambles to close his laptop, throwing an arm over his sketchbook. Rua leans in again, mouth curving at the corners.

“Is it porn?”

“N—” Diarmuid feels his face redden, and he curls further forward to shield his half-finished sketch. “No! Of course not!”

“Uh-huh.” Rua heads toward the door, nodding slowly, expression impish and satisfied. “I share a room with you, Catholic boy. I know your secrets.”

Diarmuid stutters. “You’re Catholic, too,” is all he can think to say.

“Only sometimes.” Rua steps into the hall. “I’m gonna get you some Tylenol.”

When he’s gone, Diarmuid sighs, uncovers his half-finished sketch. This one is Gothic-inspired, reminiscent of stone cathedrals with intricate tracery and delicate points. The man—David—didn’t seem to be one much for color, but Diarmuid wants to try a puzzlelike stained glass design, next.

“Oh. Not porn, then.”

Rua’s voice is right above him, and Diarmuid yelps. Rua places a bottle, contents rattling in the single digits, next to his sketchbook.

“I told you it wasn’t,” Diarmuid protests.

“That you did.” He glances over his shoulder, sees Rua observing the sketch on the wall. Diarmuid doesn’t need to watch his expression to know he recognizes it from the standard portfolio. “What is it, then?”

He knows he should lie, if he wants any chance at keeping David as a customer. But he’s never been good at lying—guilt winds around his insides just at the thought. Especially not to someone like Rua, who’s done so much for him, and Cathal—Cathal always keeps an eye on him when he has a client; he’d never be able to keep the custom design a secret.

So, he answers reluctantly, but honestly. “A customer came in today wanting a custom design, so I…” he shrugs, glances down at his sketchbook. “I offered to help him.”

“Di,” Rua sighs, and Diarmuid thins his lips at the hint of tiredness in his tone, “Cathal has your position set up the way it is for a reason.”

“I know, it’s—” Diarmuid adds a few thoughtless lines to his sketch, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed and incredibly young. “It’s been two years. I know I’m ready.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Rua says, “I just poke holes in people. Look,” he adds, when Diarmuid continues his dejected sketching, “Cathal knows you’re talented. He wouldn’t have taken you on if he hadn’t. But you know how he is. He’s cautious, and anxious about—”

“Everything.”

“—Everything, yeah.”

Diarmuid presses his tongue into his cheek. He _wants_ to do David’s tattoo—besides his impatience to do his own designs, to finally make his job _his_ art, there had been something about him. Something completely beyond Diarmuid, maybe, but nonetheless, Diarmuid feels compelled to reach for that. Compelled to help.

Still—

It’s well-ingrained to listen to authority, follow the hierarchy. There’s a certain comfort in doing so, even when he doesn’t want to, and—it’s just what he does.

“I’ll tell Cathal,” he acquiesces. Rua hums, gives him a stilted pat on the shoulder, and leaves.

Tomorrow. He’ll talk to Cathal tomorrow. And he’ll finish the designs, because—well, because he wants to. He wasn’t lying about being inspired. Something about David’s odd uncertainty, the abyss in his eyes, makes Diarmuid want to _draw_.

Besides—if David likes his designs, maybe Cathal will use one of them.

🕈

The weekend is busy—it always is, especially in the summer, when the city and all who enter have an explosive need for ink—but in between disinfecting the tattoo and piercing stations after sessions, manning the front desk, and re-organizing the supply shelf in whatever way Cathal prefers this month, Diarmuid finds time to finish four concept sketches.

In spite of his promise to Rua, he avoids bringing it up to Cathal. He wants to show them to David first—if David likes them, he’ll probably get in less trouble. Besides, he worked hard on them. Even though he ended up with only four, there were countless iterations of each—multiple redraws to compare small differences and decide the best for each design. He doesn’t want them to go to waste.

Cathal takes Mondays off to do banking and other errands, but Rua still pierces, and Diarmuid shows up early for opening procedures and walk-ins. At 9 AM he’s on the bus, earbuds in, an MCR folder he’s had since high school clutched to his chest. He isn’t sure why it didn’t quite make it into his messenger bag, but—he curls his fingers around the edges protectively. He’s _excited_.

The bus lets him off a block from the parlor, but the scent of fresh coffee grounds pulls him around the opposite corner he would usually turn down to go to work. He’d gotten an exceptionally good tip from a suburban mom who he’d cheerfully talked through a painful foot tattoo on Sunday, he’s already given Cathal his share of rent, and it’s been forever since he bought himself something that wasn’t art supplies or a necessity—he supposes they’re one in the same, considering—so he soon finds himself leaving a cafe with an iced vanilla latte in hand and a wrapped sugar cookie in his bag’s side pocket, somehow in a better mood than he already was. It’s even enough to distract from the sweltering heat quickly collecting on the morning pavement, weighted down by the muggy city air.

Once he’s done setting up shop, he’ll scan the sketches and send them to David, he decides with a resolute sip at the paper straw. He’ll explain the situation to Cathal once he hears back, and either beg forgiveness or talk his boss through an anxious spiral, depending on what type of business day it’s been.

Just as he’s about to round the corner of the parlor, now pressing the icy plastic against the redeveloping ache of his bruise, he sees something out of the corner of his eye and stops. At first he thinks it’s his imagination—because he’s got his first client on the mind already—but when he backtracks two steps and peers in through the bay windows of _flos tabernam_ , past the hanging planters and vibrant floral displays, he sees him.

Almost without thinking—because he was _just_ on his mind, so it only makes sense—Diarmuid pushes open the door. “David!”

Inside the florist’s is a breath of fresh air—cool, crisp, and an array of aromas. The left wall is lined with windowed refrigerators stocked with bouquets and vase arrangements; the right wall is summery wreaths and tables of potted plants. The shop is longer than it is wide, a path woven on the brown stone floor between two rounded, tiered displays—chaotic assortments of plants, scented candles, incense, tea sachets, and perfumes.

Diarmuid makes his way to the back, where the man is bent over what looks like was once a vintage dark wood dresser, refurbished as a workstation mountained with an entire color wheel of flowers. At the sound of his name, David looks up somewhat wildly, swinging around before his gaze finally settles on Diarmuid.

He looks so caught off guard that for a moment Diarmuid wonders if he’s been forgotten. He slows as he approaches the counter, smile tentative. “I’m Diarmuid, from Illuminated Ink & Piercings. We talked last week.”

To his surprise, David nods without any hesitation.

“Yeah.”

The voice Diarmuid hears is deep and gravely, just as he imagined when he first saw him—but also unexpectedly quiet, and gentle. It takes Diarmuid a moment to realize that the voice belongs to _him_ —to David—and suddenly he finds himself unable to speak, mind blank, blinking in surprise.

“Oh,” he says, when he finds the words. “You _do_ talk.”

David ducks his head back toward his work, large hands expertly working between thin stems and soft leaves to arrange a set of flowers over a sunny yellow ribbon. Diarmuid feels immediately guilty.

“Sorry, I—you don’t have to talk, if you don’t want to. I just saw you through the window. I had no idea we were basically neighbors.”

David glances back up at this, past his sloping brow, and Diarmuid tries another smile. Then, remembering the folder still tucked under one arm—“I was actually going to send you the concept sketches today, but we could take a look at them together now. Do you have a minute?”

It’s a little past nine on a Monday morning. After a slight pause, David nods, and carefully gathers up one of the piles of warm-hued blossoms to make room. A thrill runs down Diarmuid’s spine—he’d half-expected the head-shake he had grown so accustomed to during their first meeting—and he sidles around the countertop, opens the folder and lays out the four designs.

“These are just ideas; I can make any changes you want. I’m assuming you want it to scale? But we can change the exact size before we print the stencil. It’ll depend on where you decide you want it, too. You also didn’t really strike me as a colors guy—um, that was before I knew you worked here—but I thought I’d offer the stained glass one, anyway. Though I will warn you about colored ink…”

Diarmuid rambles while David looks through the sketches, running dirt-ringed fingertips over each. The touch is unusually thoughtful, with the same unexpected gentleness found in his voice. After careful consideration of each, he slides one of the pages from the counter.

It’s a Celtic cross. The last one Diarmuid drew, with the least amount of revisions. A piece borne more of personal interest than any expectation that it would actually be chosen.

Something warm settles in Diarmuid's chest. “This one? Are you sure?”

David nods again—then pauses, clears his throat. Runs a finger along the center of the cross, just as he did last time. “This part…”

Diarmuid steps closer to get a better look, doesn’t miss how David swings his shoulder out of the way almost violently. The inside of the cross, as well as the circle behind it, is embellished with a traditional woven pattern.

As Diarmuid inspects it for errors, David finishes; “Could you make it… darker?”

Diarmuid wonders how a voice can be so low, yet take up so much space. “Sure. I can fill in all the weaving, or the negative space between the weaving. Is one of those okay?”

He sees David nod in his periphery, but when he glances up at him, he looks conflicted.

The warm feeling in Diarmuid’s chest dissipates. Clearly, he’s doing something wrong.

“Um, so—” he does his best not to visibly deflate, to hide his disappointment; “I’m actually still an apprentice at the shop. Which means I’m not really supposed to—do designs like this. But my boss can!” he adds hurriedly, when David’s expression veers from conflicted to alarmed. “He’s not in today, but if you come back tomorrow we can—”

“No.”

The roughness that edges the voice Diarmuid hasn’t even had a chance to grow accustomed to is so jarring that he cuts off immediately. Some part of the jolt he feels inside at the sudden change must show on his face, because David’s eyes shift momentarily to his bruise, then away. He runs a hand over his face. The alarm melts back into conflict, and Diarmuid isn’t sure why but—he just wants to _know_. Wants to understand.

David maneuvers around Diarmuid, jostling him into the countertop even though they never touch. He starts down a short hallway on the back wall, motioning for Diarmuid to follow.

He leads him through a door on the left side of the hall. The room inside is narrow, each wall lined with shelves of supplies—ribbon, lace, wrapping paper; bags of dried moss, wire, grapevine wreaths—leaving barely enough space for David’s shoulders. Tentatively, and when David makes no move to stop him, Diarmuid closes the door behind them.

The room is cozy, smells faintly of potting soil, and—perhaps strangely—Diarmuid doesn’t feel much apprehension. Though, Cathal would always argue that Diarmuid doesn’t feel enough apprehension.

He waits patiently, expectantly, for whatever it is David wants to show him. David, on his part, continues to look as conflicted as before. His eyes are anywhere but Diarmuid’s face, brow furrowed. He’s quite expressive, Diarmuid thinks.

Then—David turns around, reaches over his shoulders, and in one fluid motion removes his shirt. Diarmuid stammers incoherently, plastering his back to the door, clambering for the knob, ears burning—

Then he sees it—the dark lines between his shoulder blades. Jagged, ugly penmanship. Even uglier words. Asymmetrically framed by two knots of scar tissue, like someone had plucked weeds from a garden but left the roots tangled in the upturned earth.

A wartime tattoo, Diarmuid realizes.

David offers no further explanation. Not where he got it—though Diarmuid can guess— or why he has it, or how he got it past his superiors; Diarmuid doesn’t know much about the military, but he does know a thing or two about their tattoo regulations—and this violates a universal rule.

He can’t deny it makes him uncomfortable. Severely so. But under the ink, the powerful lines of David’s shoulders are drawn taut, and beyond it his head is slightly bowed. And even though he can’t see his face, Diarmuid _knows_ —he reads the debilitating blend of shame and trauma and he gets it.

It’s not exactly the same. But like a fogged up mirror, he still recognizes the shapes, and he understands.

When Diarmuid says nothing, David’s entire body tenses, and he starts to roll his shirt back over his head.

“Wait,” Diarmuid says, softly. David lowers his arms. “You want to cover it up, right?”

A nod.

Diarmuid’s voice stays quiet. “You don’t want anyone else to see.”

Another nod.

Diarmuid steps away from the door. “Then I’ll do it.”

The silence that settles between them seems almost stunned. David stays completely, deliberately still. Diarmuid takes another step forward, so that he’s standing right behind him. The tattoo is at about eye height, but he doesn’t focus on it.

“I’ll talk to my boss,” he murmurs. “And I can fix the design.” He lifts his hand—pauses. “Can I touch you?”

The stunned silence drifts, then David nods.

With one finger, Diarmuid lightly traces over the words strung between shoulder blades as though he’s striking them from a record. “We’ll line it up here—” he runs the finger from just below his neck to the area below his blades, feels the muscles underneath finally start to relax, “—and here. How does that sound?”

As soon as Diarmuid’s touch is gone, David pulls his shirt back over his head.

“Good,” he rasps.

🕈

Back at the parlor, Diarmuid goes through the motions setting up for the day. But his mind is elsewhere—spinning around mysterious and terrible ink, gentle people, broad shoulders and shame. He wonders how he’s going to explain it all to Cathal without betraying the trust David has so inexplicably placed in him.

As he’s switching on the neon OPEN sign in the front window, his phone buzzes in his back pocket. He circles back toward the front desk, opens the text.

 **Geraldus:** _It’s been a while. Wanted to check in. Noon on Wednesday?_

Diarmuid sits at the front desk. Pulls out his sugar cookie. Takes a bite.

 **Diarmuid:** _Sounds good. See you then._

🕈


End file.
